The Lost Highway

Last month, I went on a kind of Quest, ferrying my 85 year old father back to the places where he (where we) come from. The trip took us to parts of Canada that never appear on television, to places unimportant to few but those who live there, meeting people whose life stories have never been much published or produced.

It was a journey that taught me a lot about my country, my people and myself. I’m still not sure what it all means. And like most of what I’ve written, I probably won’t discover what that is until some point in the writing. But from time to time over the next while, I’ll share some of these stories for whatever they may end up meaning to you.

I’ve been back in “The World” for a week now. “Back in the World” was a term Vietnam era soldiers used to describe leaving the war and returning to 1960’s America. But it seems as fitting today as it was back then.

In my current world of Toronto, the two big stories in the local papers were a month long garbage strike brought about by a struggle between Union and Management over worker benefits and a revelation that Paramedics were taking an additional 53 seconds to reach patients calling 911.

On the International scene, it was wall to wall coverage of the Obama Health Plan and a constant stream of invective against "Canadian-style Socialized Medicine”. Invective huffily dismissed by most in the Canadian media.

That 53 second story was of particular interest. Because I’d just spent time in a part of the country barely 20 clicks off Highway One – the blacktop ribbon that crosses the country from coast to coast and carries virtually all of the goods and services transported from East to West and vice versa.  But despite their being in the immediate vicinity of what passes for modern civilization, it was a completely different world.

A world where anyone who calls 911 waits an hour or longer for help to come, if it is even able to reach them at all.

And, in an odd twist, this is the region of Canada that first championed universal medical care and where the political movement that spawned that concept of helping ones neighbors in time of need had turned its back on those it had once vowed to protect.

I remember being about 9 or 10, sitting with my parents as they listened to Tommy Douglas on the radio, vowing that if elected his CCF party would make sure that everyone got the medical care they needed no matter their income or position in society. My mother cried and hugged me. I was very sick as a kid and what Tommy Douglas was doing meant my family could afford to keep me alive.

At the time, we lived in the South West corner of Saskatchewan, along a winding gravel road called Highway 32. There was a hospital at each end in Swift Current and Leader and one in the middle at Cabri. I’d spent time in them all.

A dozen towns six to eight miles apart were connected by that highway, each with their own rows of grain elevators and some with the garages, stores and banks that people in the other towns used the highway to reach. It wasn’t unusual to spend a Saturday going to the dentist in one, the Co-op store in another and the movie theatre in a third.

In an area where neighbors could be miles apart and 90% of the land had been turned into endless fields of wheat and grasslands for cattle, the 3-4000 people who lived near Highway 32 got used to all going to the same dentist in one town or using the same bank in another, aware that there weren’t enough of them for everything to be everywhere or even “convenient”. But they were close to some things and had to go a little farther for others – and the road they needed to take was pretty good.

About 5 years ago, that all changed.

The number of people stayed the same (even grew a little) and despite some of the towns declining, the economy around them prospered and diversified.

Farmers were now growing more crops, including healthier oil bearing Canola and even Lentils. They ranched Buffalo and Elk as well as cattle. Some raised deer to serve the Asian antler and velvet markets. Meanwhile, geologists discovered their farms lay on top of some of the richest potash and natural gas fields in the world.

Sleepy one street villages were replaced by gas plants that dwarfed the original owners of their place names. In 2005, the little towns along Highway 32 contributed $263 Million to the Province of Saskatchewan in Natural Gas royalties alone. 

Yet, the government allowed Highway 32 to fall into disrepair. In 2005, it was estimated that it would take $12 Million to put the road back in working order.

Four years later, that road still isn’t fixed.

All along its length you hear story after story of ambulances bottoming out in potholes during an emergency run and breaking an axle; of buses careening into ditches in the rain; of trucks overturning and blocking all traffic for hours because tow trucks can’t navigate the highway to clear the wreckage.

As a result, ambulances don’t run on Highway 32 anymore. Even when they reached victims in time, it was impossible to provide any care during the bumpy ride back to the hospital.

The buses have stopped. Basic goods don’t get delivered unless store owners truck them in at their own risk and additional expense. People have stopped making trips to the other towns along the highway’s route because they’re not sure if they’ll make it, let alone make it home.

On one rainy afternoon, it took me almost an hour to cover 10 clicks of solid mud, sliding dangerously close to steep ditches or slamming into potholes almost deep enough to swallow the car.

I met a bank teller who can’t get to work some days, meaning the two employee bank doesn’t open. I bought a coke from a kid who couldn’t count the number of days the school bus hadn’t been able to either pick him up or get him to school.

I pried stones out of the brake shoes with the help of an oil roughneck who deals with that kind of screaming every day and says his average windshield lasts two months because of all the stone hits.

I sat with a retired farmer who described the night his wife had a heart attack and he did CPR on her for an hour and pushed Nitro tablets under her tongue while a 911 operator told him to do nothing until the paramedics arrived.

The next day the doctor told him that it was he and not the medical system that had saved her life.

How did this happen in a Province making so much money its new nickname is “Saskaboom!”?

According to the locals, they made a mistake. They stopped voting NDP and were punished for sending somebody else to Regina to represent them.

That made a lot of sense to me, for I’ve seen how the party of Tommy Douglas’ compassionate revolution has devolved to defending union thugs whose sense of entitlement takes precedent over retirees in walkers trying to carry a bag of adult diapers past the picket line at a temporary garbage dump.

In 1960, the socialist government of Tommy Douglas airlifted doctors into Saskatchewan to break a strike by the medical profession to save its population.

In 1990, the socialist government of Bob Rae put its population at risk by reducing the number of doctors training in Ontario universities to save money.

Somewhere along the way, the party that cared became one where you only mattered if you were one of them.

The remarkable “Sand Hills Museum” in Sceptre, exhibits a poster from 1960 detailing the new Medicare plan “$24/person, $48/family” yet sometimes only sees one tourist a day because of the road.

In 2007, the party that had been founded on rural discontent only won seats in a few inner cities and the government changed with Premier Brad Wall’s Saskatchewan party (an offspring of the right wing Reform movement) coming to power. And plans were immediately made to put Highway 32 back together again.

Oddly, although gas revenues from the area are now higher than they’ve ever been and the trainloads of Lentils and velvet are making us new friends all over Asia, the repairs to the highway proceed at a snail’s pace.

It seems the new boss suddenly has other “priorities”.

From personal observation, it would appear that Premier Wall’s most pressing priority is building as many casinos as he can to ensure that none of those gas and potash riches get beyond his borders.

There are new casinos everywhere in the Province. I suggested the locals might actual get the highway fixed if somebody called the Premier’s office and complained about being unable to get to Swift Current’s shiny new “Living Sky” Casino so they could have their pockets vacuumed.

But seriously, how is it possible that people living in one of the richest regions of one of the world’s richest countries can’t be certain an ambulance will arrive in time to save a pensioner who’s had a heart attack, a farmer trapped under an overturned tractor, or a child drowning in a community pool?

Cities in the country facing bankruptcy can still get help to their citizens in under 3 minutes. In Brad Wall’s cash flush Saskatchewan, help might never get there.

A few years ago, people along Highway 32 started fighting back. They sold bumper stickers, a very popular “Pothole Calendar” and a website with the full story (and video) at www.highway32.ca.

They’re getting somewhere, but they could use more help.

If you feel your fellow Canadians should have the same access to health care as you do or simply that people elected to public office are there to serve all the people and not just those who vote for them, pay a visit to the site and kick in your two cents (either literally or figuratively).  A few thousand people you’ve never met will be forever in your debt.

And do that soon, because if the tales of Medical need along Highway 32 ever get across the border, we’re in for a week of hysteria on Fox News, more Canada bashing and a lot of Americans who might end up not getting the reformed Medical system they so desperately need.

You might also write a letter to Saskatchewan Premier Brad Wall and ask why a Province that plans to build nuclear power plants and space age wind farms can’t fix a short stretch of highway.

In my letter, I’m also going to mention that all the tourists I talked to thought the downtown of his capital city was a “shithole” with nothing to do or see.

Unless you wanted to visit the casino.

LAZY SUNDAY # 79: FLOATING

It’s not unusual for me to return from a vacation more tuckered than when I departed. Work hard, play hard is a cycle that eventually results in diminishing returns. So, I’m taking a breather for one last day. Regular irregular blogging resumes tomorrow. In the meantime, I float amid images like these.

Sometimes this is the only vacation you really need.

Just let them wash over you. Enjoy your Sunday. And awake refreshed.

Kuroshio Sea - 2nd largest aquarium tank in the world - (song is Please don't go by Barcelona) from Jon Rawlinson on Vimeo.

WHY SO SECRET?

Are you starting to get the feeling that the CRTC, Canada’s TV, Internet and Telecommunications regulator, is beginning to think it’s a branch of the CIA or maybe even CSIS?

I mean, what’s with all the fricken secrecy lately!?

Have these guys got real classified information to protect or would they just like people to believe they’re suddenly that important?

First they were redacting hearing documents, as if the public they were appointed to serve didn’t deserve to know what was going on in publicly funded meetings.

A couple of weeks back, they announced they were levelling fines on two Telemarketing firms that violated their “Do Not Call” list.

But the companies being fined and the amounts they had to pay were not revealed – and won’t be unless they don’t cough up by the end of the month.

And then there’s this little nugget from Conservative Blogger Stephen Taylor, indicating the Commission erased a section of its “Review of Broadcasting in New Media” after publishing it suddenly pretending their report never said what it used to say.

These guys even silence their own, snuffing out any ideas from their personal staff, despite the cost and time involved in doing the research and work involved in coming up with those ideas.

Somehow speaking openly and honestly has come to be considered a dangerous practice at the CRTC.

Posing the question -- “If they can’t be straight with us, how are we supposed to be straight with them?

And also making some people wonder if this cloak of secrecy is a way of hiding the CRTC from publicly revealing their own incompetence and inability to actually regulate the industries they are charged with regulating.

Let’s take this “Do Not Call” fine first.

The CRTC initially sold the lists of numbers telemarketers were not supposed to call to telemarketers; ostensibly to make sure they knew who not to bother -- but apparently without any real protections in place to make sure nobody used those lists or passed them on to people operating outside the CRTC’s jurisdiction.

Maybe these firms did just that but why the reluctance to reveal their names? Does the CRTC not want to publicly ‘shame’ them? Because anybody who has dealt with telemarketers knows that they have no shame. Tell them you can’t afford what they’re selling and they’ll call back ten minutes later offering you a new Visa card.

Is there any chance this whole ‘fine’ thing is really an elaborate sham to make them look like they’re handling things?

They’re taking heat for the failure of the “Do Not call” list. So they pretend they are penalizing “a couple of guys” who broke the rules. Yeah, that’ll show the public they mean business. I mean, how do we know these penalized companies even exist – or are the worst offenders?

And how much is the fine? Huge or a slap on the wrist the culprits won’t even notice? And where does it get paid? In what item line of the Federal budget will this income be shown? And how do we know it actually has been paid beyond the CRTC’s say so?

This is not how the Federal budgets of open democracies operate – with secret payments being made God knows where with no accounting oversight to acknowledge where it’s coming from or to make sure it doesn’t actually end up paying for somebody’s Book of the Month Club subscription.

For the last few months, entangled in the mess the Commission has made of the broadcast system, by allowing acquisitions which have been financially disastrous for all involved and threaten to completely capsize the broadcast system – or at least shrink it to the point where it no longer provides what Canadians want to see broadcast; Chairman Konrad von Finckenstein has bemoaned the CRTC’s “lack of teeth” ie: the inability to enforce their rulings.

So how is any unnamed Telemarketer going to feel obligated to pay this unnamed fine anyway? Revealing that maybe this is a straw man move by the CRTC to make it appear they are doing something when they are not.

Which brings me to the CRTC announcement (also from a couple of weeks ago) that the Cableco’s will increase their commitment to local television by supplying a further $100 Million to the Local Programming Improvement fund.

The broadcasters immediately announced local TV had been “saved” (at least for now) took a few bargain priced stations off the auction block and otherwise celebrated the windfall – as well as the right to produce far less local programming than they had previously.

In the new Maxwell Smart legalese of the Commission, the press release announcing this aspect of the deal said…

“In addition, the Commission has harmonized its requirements for the broadcast of local programming in English- and French-language markets. Each week, local television stations will have to air a minimum number of hours of programming that is produced locally and that speaks to, and about, the community.”

Ooooh, that sounds so firm and forceful – until you learn that under the new rules most local stations are only required to produce one hour of local news and information daily.

One hour – for their share of $100 Million.

However, the Cableco’s simultaneously announced they weren’t paying the new freight rate, so there.

And who’s going to make them?

I mean if the CRTC couldn’t enforce their own requirements for Shaw and Rogers to actually make Super Channel available to their subscribers and the subscribers aware of its availability, how will they force them to cough up another hundred mil of their own money for no additional programming at all?

Actually make that $100 Million for less programming.

Much less.

The situation got so bad at Super Channel, that the movie network, launched two years ago to challenge the geographic monopolies in Canada's pay-television sector finally filed for protection from its creditors.

Yet, despite several appeals to the CRTC, the Commission didn’t move to help them. However, a little whining from their historical favorites, the terrestrial broadcasters, and they’re quick to find them the money they supposedly need.

I say “supposedly” because simultaneous to the CRTC releasing their edict, the Federal Government’s own statistical arm StatsCan reported that Canadian television revenues were up 5.4% in 2008.

Yep, despite what the industry would have you believe, private television broadcasters in Canada earned profits of $691 million in 2008.

Much of that was in Specialties and Pay to be sure (all owned wholly or in part by conventional TV nets) but apparently the “disastrous decline” in conventional broadcasting that had resulted in mass firings, layoffs and cuts in programming was a mere –1.8%.

I wonder how those Stascan figures compare with what the broadcasters told the CRTC in those closed sessions that later had their minutes redacted?

Yet, the CRTC still chose to hand the broadcasters $100 Million of somebody else’s money – the Cable Company’s for now - but it’ll be yours if the cableco’s take the hit and pass it on.

There was initial support from the Writers Guild for the decision, mostly because the CRTC held the line on the amount of Canadian content the broadcasters are required to carry.

But while there may be screenwriter jobs saved for now, that may not be the case if folks start dropping channels to reduce their cable bills and those dropped channels are ones which create work for Canadian writers.

This is a vicious circle that has been created by the CRTC’s initial mistakes and their inability to own up to screwing the pooch.

They’ve had a history of ignoring their mandate of protecting the Canadian public. And with this decision they’ve thumbed their nose at the public’s elected representatives.

The Parliamentary Heritage Committee that also held hearings on the local TV issue, in passing the final decision to the CRTC, requested that they take the profits of the broadcasters’ entire corporate holdings into account when determining their financial need.

But the CRTC did not.

More and more, the CRTC is becoming a rogue arm of the Federal government, protecting neither Canadian consumers nor the artists and producers who serve them – and trying to cover their shortcomings with an ever darkening veil of secrecy.

LAZY SUNDAY # 78: MOON WALKING

40 years ago tomorrow, I watched the moon landing while ripped out of my gourd on Peyote buttons. I could’ve sworn Neil Armstrong’s first words were “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for Mankind.”

But I was also dealing with several R. Crumb style cartoon hot dogs and root beer bottles doing a kick line on the window sill to a selection of show tunes from “Oklahoma” and “Camelot”, so I can’t be considered a reliable source.

A few years ago, Armstrong acknowledged that what I heard was what he was supposed to say and thought he had said, but an audio dropout somewhere between here and the Sea of Tranquility left a different version of man’s first words from the Lunar surface for posterity.

Wrecked as I was, the first moon walk is still vivid in my memory. And in some ways, the combination of my state and Armstrong’s achievement defines what set the 60’s apart from other eras.

Back then, it seemed like everybody was looking for ways to get outside the box. We were exploring both inner and outer space as well as boldly going where no one had gone before in almost every conceivable direction.

The imagination, innovation and courage that defined NASA and the Apollo astronauts could be found in every aspect of human endeavor. Everybody seemed to be looking for a way to discover or simply experience something people hadn’t even attempted before.

It just seemed expected and completely logical to risk everything –- your body, your life or your sanity, in the hope of uncovering something new.

And so, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin strapped themselves into the Lunar lander fully accepting that they had a 50% chance of safely reaching the moon and even less of getting back.

And I, taking psychology classes from Dr. Duncan Blewett, acknowledged as the Canadian Timothy Leary, was “doing my homework” attempting to record my altered state after swallowing whatever was being handed out that day.

Armstrong and Aldrin made it to the moon, apparently with their onboard computer failing, four miles off course and 15 seconds from running out of fuel. And they made it home, both men profoundly changed by the experience, altered from disciplined Navy fighter pilots to humanitarians and philosophers.

Not long after, I gave up psychotropics. Whenever somebody offered me a joint or something stronger, I always passed, telling them I’d already seen God and didn’t need any more.

And in a way I had seen God – in the form of Neil Armstrong pointing out the distant pale blue marble of the Earth floating over the cratered horizon of the Moon.

Both Neil and I figured we’d be on Mars by now and maybe even further out there. Maybe we also thought that his shot of our planet floating in the vast blackness of space might make people look at a lot of things differently.

But instead, the human race decided to play it safe and stick close to home and keep doing what it already felt comfortable with. No more pushing the envelope, thinking outside the box, taking too many chances.

Maybe celebrating the 40th Anniversary of our going to the Moon will re-inspire some to grow back their courage and thirst for discovery.

NASA has done its best to help, taking the familiar video we’ve all seen (which was originally shot off the single television receiving it in Mission Control) and enhancing it to what we were supposed to have been watching.

Have a look. Think of what might still be. And enjoy your Sunday.

TRUST THE ARTS NOT THE ARTISTS

We’ve all got friends who screw up from time to time. Sometimes they mess up so bad that the authorities get involved.

More than once, I’ve been asked to write a nice letter to a Judge indicating that the guy he’s about to sentence isn’t as evil as all that and somehow happenstance or a momentary lapse caused them to detour from their normally more appropriate behavior.

And while everybody, no matter their crime, is equally deserving of a second chance, many still need a little time on the shelf to get their heads straight and maybe deter others from taking their path.

In March of this year, Theatre impresario Garth Drabinsky and his partner, Myron Gottlieb, were both found guilty of two counts of fraud and one of forgery for activities which occurred during their ownership of Livent Inc. The loss to their investors is estimated to be $500 Million.

Theirs was not one of those momentary lapses, but an ongoing and complex criminal enterprise that operated for many years.

Superior Court Justice Mary Lou Benotto, in rendering her verdict stated that the two accused “satisfy all three of the ways a prohibited act can be conducted. They were deceitful, they perpetrated a falsehood and reasonable people would consider them dishonest.”

In other countries, white collar crimes of this magnitude can earn the perpetrators Bernie Madoff-like sentences of 150 years; an acknowledgement of the horrendous damage done to those who lose their life savings or entire pensions.

But in Canada, these sentences seldom get within 1/10th of the terms handed out by American courts. And if you are a respected member of the Canadian establishment, you can change 15 years to 15 months.

No matter what you’ve done in Canada, if you’re part of our elites you get preferential treatment.

As an example -- after the Livent verdict, the National Post reported “In an extraordinary move, a court clerk demanded the public leave the courtroom. Court security officers and a police officer arrived to usher the public outside so the convicted former theatre executives could be consoled privately”.

Canada’s “Just Society” is often just for the Rich.

During the time he was being investigated on charges of fraud and corruption at the NHL Players Association, Alan Eagleson was still a welcome guest in the private arena boxes and homes of many of Canada’s corporate and government elite. He even guest starred on CBC’s “Royal Canadian Air Farce”.

Upon conviction of those charges in a Massachusetts court, former Toronto Maple Leafs star, Carl Brewer, cried out, “God Bless the United States of America! This would have never happened in Canada!”.

Unfortunately, more than a decade later, the old hockey player’s lament is still true.

You can tune in Monday nights at 8:00 pm to see Garth Drabinsky on “Triple Sensation” as CBC continues its practise of propping up the reputations of our Establishment criminals, literally paying people who have plundered the savings of their own audience directly from the public purse.

And you will find many familiar Canadian Establishment names appended to the dozens of letters submitted to Justice Benotto’s court last week pleading leniency for the two convicted fraudsters.

Interestingly, in the way Canadian justice appears to be administered in white collar cases, there were no victim impact statements read into the record or at least none reported by the mainstream press.

Those of import here have a voice. Ordinary people who merely lost small fortunes do not.

Scotiabank CEO, Peter Godsoe, suggested that “Myron has suffered immensely” begging the judge to go easy on his old pal. I wonder how often Mr. Godsoe has made the same plea on behalf of somebody who stuck up one of his tellers for a few thousand bucks (less than 1/10,000 of what his friend took)?

Joseph L. Rotman, he who has the University of Toronto’s Rotman School of Business named after him, suggested that Drabinsky and Gottlieb should be set free to lecture on business ethics at Canadian university.

As Drabinsky’s lawyer further outlined the plan, "“He would teach students the discipline of the craft, the enormous role that integrity and honesty play in the theatre, the importance of fulfilling contractual responsibilities [and] the avoidance of unethical conduct.”

An odd choice of lecture topics for men who have never admitted any wrongdoing or guilt or remorse for their victims and indeed continue to blame others for perpetrating their fraud.

Perhaps their lectures will be collectively published under the an OJ style “If I did it…” title.

Anna Porter could publish it. She also wrote a letter of support.

To their eternal discredit, so did several well known artists.

Canadian Actress Martha Henry argued that “We need the Garths of the world to give us challenges, hope, excitement, courage…”. I wonder if Ms. Henry had given any thought to the challenges now facing Garth’s victims, the courage and hope they will need to weather the “excitement” her hero has brought to their lives.

Actor Christopher Plummer described the two convicted fraudsters as men “who recognize worth when they see it.” Yes, Chris, and like all thieving Magpies, immediately conspired to make those worthy “sparklies” their own.

And while both these talented thespians will continue working in the theatre, it’s interesting that neither gave any thought to the reality that the Livent fraud means many of their profession will not because Garth and Myron convinced many to never again invest in a play.

Hal Prince, Drabinsky’s favorite director and fellow judge on “Triple Sensation” (Don’t forget -- CBC Monday at 8:00) stated that Drabinsky “clearly loved and respected what he was doing and did it well.”

It’s not clear if Mr. Prince is describing Mr. Drabinsky’s love of theatre or skill at pulling a fast one. And one has to wonder if Mr. Prince feels obligated to support one of the few guys who’s been hiring him lately – a list that’s likely to become much shorter now that its been revealed that all the Broadway “Hits” he directed for Livent were actually massive turkeys.

And then there’s novelist E. L. Doctorow, whose missive of support was tepid at best. “That he has, after years of visionary theatrical entrepreneurship come to this, I cannot view as anything less than a personal tragedy.”

It must be tough for a man of Doctorow’s stature to consider that virtually every penny he was paid for the run of “Ragtime” was money stolen from others.

There are other luminaries on the letters list. Painter Alex Colville. Dancer Karen Kain. Former Toronto mayor David Crombie. All members of Canada’s gentry. All enormously talented. And all willing to overlook the harm done to the audiences they have served for a crook who pandered to their egos with invitations to glittering opening nights and celebrity studded parties.

I’m hoping that Justice Benotto has heard the old adage “Trust the Art, not the Artist” and sees these letters for the self-serving instruments that they are. Votes of support intended to place their writers as champions of these two convicted Establishment darlings, ensuring their own continued acceptance by that Establishment.

Perhaps the best assessment of Mr. Drabinsky comes not from a Canadian, but from Jeremy Gerard, an editor at Bloomberg.com who reported for Variety in the early '90s and was the first to raise doubts about Livent's finances.

"He was a con artist. His con was culture, because that gave him some cachet."

We’re big on cachet here. Keeping up appearances is so important. It just doesn’t do if people discover your great men just don’t have that much character. If it were – what might it say about you?

JAN

I’ve literally been wandering the wilderness for the last two weeks, lost in the Badlands of Alberta and Great Sandhills of Saskatchewan, emerging yesterday to learn that I’d lost an old friend.

Others will remember Jan Rubes as the proudly protective Amish grandfather, Eli Lapp, in “Witness”, as the terrifyingly deranged psychiatrist in “Dead of Winter” (his own favorite role) or the singing coroner of “Due South”.

But my enduring image of Jan is of him standing in the wet pre-dawn, wearing only a slouch cap, underwear and cowboy boots, listening to his lush and infectious laughter as we both got into wardrobe for another day of work on “Lions For Breakfast”.

“Lions” was a Canadian film shot long before local actors could demand or local producers could afford trailers and motor homes for the stars of their films. So there we were in our skivvies, dressing off the tailgate of a station wagon.

The film we were making was about a misfit gypsy and two orphan brothers who form an unlikely family as they search for a better life. In many ways, its theme embodied Jan’s life.

Jan was born in Czechoslovakia, initially gaining notoriety as a featured singer with the Prague Opera. After winning his division of the International Music Festival in Geneva in 1948, however, he emigrated to Canada and Toronto, discovering to his horror that there wasn’t an opera house in his new home town.

So, like any gifted artist, Jan set out to find ways to share his gift in any way he could.

By the time I met him on the set of a low budget kid film, he had helped form the Canadian Opera Company, appearing in more than 1000 performances there as well as starring in or directing countless other pieces of theatre, films and television dramas and hosting his own radio and TV shows.

He had introduced thousands to music they had never heard before and never thought they’d like if they did hear it.

He had sung in drawing rooms and on internationally renowned stages.

He had taken roles in American Cold War potboilers, episodes of “Lassie” and countless forgotten plays.

He had brought his love of music into every living room in the country and given kids watching television the grandfather they never had.

He had done everything he possibly could to share the gifts he had been given with as many people as possible.

For Jan Rubes, there was no such thing as charting a career path, playing to a particular audience or feeding the needs of a cultural elite. There were simply people who needed to be entertained (whether they realized it or not) and all of those people were of equal value to him.

And so, despite those incredible achievements and the option to be appearing before the crowned heads of Europe and preparing for his work in the gilded dressing rooms of immaculate opera houses, there he was in the wilds of Ontario, waist deep in mud, working long into the night, enduring the BBQ lunches prepared by the producer and his kids to save a few bucks, in order to make a film he believed would reach even more audiences as yet untouched.

During one of those nights, we shot a sequence with an entire pride of lions. Across the compound, the crew, safely ensconced in heavy trucks, shot Jan and I in dialogue inside a rickety school bus as those Lions swarmed the vehicle, shredding the tires, cracking windows and trashing the horse trailer the bus was towing.

It was one of those moments when you realized you weren’t going to get a second take and everything had to be perfect – while also somewhat aware it might be the last scene you ever shot.

Jan never missed a beat, working as calmly and staying as focused as if he were in the cozy confines of a rehearsal studio. He was completely committed to sharing his gift, knowing the scene would thrill kid audiences all over the world and making sure it went without a hitch.

Around the same time, I appeared in a musical version of “Winnie the Pooh” produced by Jan’s wife Susan as she established The Young People’s Theatre Company.

Susan had compiled an amazing cast. Jazz and Broadway legend Don Franks as Pooh, Mark Connors (later of “The Nylons”) as Eeyore, soon to be a famous writer, Suzette Couture, as Kanga and Andrea Martin and I as Rabbits.

We did the whole show in life sized furry outfits, making the singing and dancing so difficult there were Oxygen tanks stashed in the wings for between number pick-me-ups. Jan turned up regularly to help those of us who weren’t great singers (or maybe just me) get better.

He instinctively knew that Susan’s brainchild would introduce theatre to countless numbers who could be infected with a lifelong love of the Arts and threw himself headlong into helping it succeed.

On opening night there was a fund-raising after-party where we all turned up in costume to meet the excited kids who’d been in the audience. Jan approached with a child clinging to each hand.

On one side was a shy inner city girl who’d never been in a theatre before. On the other was a six year old in a blue suit who boldly stuck out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m John Labatt Jr.”

Jan beamed as they tugged my long ears and blackened nose. Who they were, where they came from or what they would become meant nothing to him. What was important was that for the last two hours they had laughed and cheered and sat in wrapt amazement as a story played out in front of them.

He knew they would both be back. And I think in that moment, watching his eyes dance as he watched them, I did too. His gift had been shared once more -– as it was meant to be.

Jan lived to a ripe old age, vibrant to the end. But a life is not measured by the amount of breath we take, but by all the moments that take our breath away.

By that measure, Jan Rubes, lived a thousand lifetimes, leaving everyone he met richer than they had been before. His is a legacy for which any artist would be proud.

LAZY SUNDAY # 78: HOLIDAY PIX

I've become convinced that people go on vacations for one of two reasons. They either want to relive a fond moment from their past or create a fond moment for the future.

And moments are more easily recalled if they are recorded -- therefore the recording of the past fondness or newfound ones is primary when vacationing.

This morning, in the midst of a quiet clearing in the Rockies, my dog and I ran into a busload of Japanese tourists digitally recording the grandeur of the nearby peaks.

All of a sudden we were the center of their attention. or rather, she was. I was just the guy on the other end of the leash who had walked this piece of exotic local wildlife into their field of vision.

After having the pooch sit nicely for a flurry of shutter clicks, I hit on a much better use of all of our time and had them each pose with the dog while I used their cameras (and my own) to take individual portraits.

And just for the record, I didn't just play a photographer on television...

So while the King of Japan was in Calgary being photographed with every forked tongued politician in town to flip pancakes, several of his countrymen were emailing home pictures of them with their arms around a more trustworthy local whose tongue merely lolls.

There's no doubt which set of photos will be more valued.

It made me decide to have the dog pose with everybody I meet on this trip, suddenly giving a focus and shape to what's been mostly a "Where the fuck are we now?" tour of places Canadian that never get seen on Canadian television -- meaning we're a loooooong way from Queen Street West.

And that made me think that sitting through a print-flip or digital scan of almost anybody's vacation pix would be so much more enjoyable if some thought had gone into what they were really trying to accomplish or recreate on said vacation.

The following is one of the best "How To's" I can find on giving your pictures a theme, a shape and a purpose.

If the link is broken, you can find it here.

Give it a look, grab your camera and Enjoy your Sunday.

Arigato Gozaimasu.

VACATION MEMORIES: PELTING THE BEARS

I’m on a break for a couple of weeks. Not exactly on vacation. More of on a Quest that’ll either turn out to be very interesting or a total disaster. More on that soon.

I also decided not to write about TV for a couple of weeks. With the CRTC making some major announcements on July 6, I figured I should use this time to clear my head, do a few curls and crunches and get ready for what looks to be “The Big One” – or at least “The Next One”.

Given some of the pre-announcement posturing by some members of the Commission, it would appear they didn’t get the Heritage Committee memo to take “all of a media conglomerates” holdings into account when determining who needs assistance and what kind.

Being servants to the broadcasters seems to be the only job these people think they have.

Anyway, while I’m on my “Quest” I decided to recall some of my favorite vacation memories. Maybe it’ll give those of you who have some free time this summer a few ideas.

When I was a kid in Saskatchewan in the early 60’s, the place my parents usually took my brother and I was Lake Waskesiu in the Prince Albert National Park.

Around the time I turned 10, my mom and dad took up golf. Back then, most Saskatchewan golf courses adapted to the dry weather and lack of water access by not having grass greens.

Instead, the “greens” were a mixture of sand and oil, pressed into a firm flat surface with a garden roller set nearby to erase the footprints and ball impressions of the players once they had finished the hole.

So your second shot likely landed either in the dry sand of a trap or the wet sand where you then putted out. And if the guys behind you were annoying, you just left them some footprints to try to putt around for a birdie.

But Waskesiu had a great course with real greens, so my folks always looked forward to shooting a round or two there each summer.

From the point of view of my brother and I, it was just a great place to swim, canoe to Grey Owl’s cabin, ride horses – and pelt the bears.

One of my contemporaries, Blue Collar Comic Jeff Foxworthy, has a great routine about how parents in our day seemed to have no regard whatsoever to the dangers the world held for us kids. While modern laws demand seat belts, harnesses and car seats for example; Jeff, like me, can recall riding all the way to Florida in the back window of a car.

Among my toys were lethal steel tipped lawn darts, a wood burning iron and a chemistry set that more than once sent my buddies and I scrambling from the basement ahead of some brown toxic cloud.

Parents just didn’t seem to care.

I guess they were from a generation that had dodged artillery and sniper fire and somehow playing with a BB gun or a jack knife just didn’t hardly seem worth a lot of anxiety.

Likewise, the first couple of days of our Waskesiu vacations were spent with them searching out a couple with kids approximately our age, having a few drinks with them and then handing us over to their care and supervision.

On the days mom and dad played golf, we went off with the new couple to do whatever they were doing and then their kids were with us while they went off to shoot skeet or make Molotov cocktails.

Somehow, a couple of Rye and Cokes was all it took to determine that these strangers were not child molesters or looking to sell us into white slavery.

And so we’d head off to bike, horseback ride or rock climb (all without a helmet) and if anybody did need a few stitches at the end of the day – well, what kid doesn’t take a header every now and then.

But looking back on it all, there was one nightly event that now seems utterly, completely insane. But was by far the most fun of going camping.

After dinner, once the white hot coat hangers we roasted weenies on had been put away, we all piled in the car to go to the nearby garbage dump and pelt the bears.

You see, every night, just before dusk, anywhere from eight to a dozen large black bears would come out of the woods and go through the garbage the park staff had dumped in a deep ditch at the end of some lonely forest road miles from the nearest hospital or infirmary.

Carloads of campers would roll up and while the parents sat inside the warm cars, warding off the growing chill by sipping coffee or their first of the evening; all of us kids would get out and scamper to the waist high wood railing that marked the edge of the pit to watch the feeding.

And, not twenty feet from these creatures, we’d laugh and cheer as they shredded trash bags, rent cans with their claws and feasted on the refuse.

What’s more, we’d all brought a couple of apples, baked potatoes or uneaten sandwiches that we’d toss to (or more accurately “at”) the bears, squealing with delight if we managed to draw them closer with the possibility of eating something less “tangy” than what was in the garbage bags.

More than once, I can recall one of my surrogate summer fathers calling out “Bean the Big One!” between chain smokes. And, of course, we would.

Somehow, nobody ever got chased, flayed or eaten.

And despite the disrespectful, environmentally irresponsible behavior, what I also vividly recall are moments when the proximity and uniqueness of the experience made you realize just how special these animals really were.

And -- once we were out of things to throw at the bears, our parents would take us back to the camp where big granite rocks had been heating on the fire embers.

And while we roasted bedtime marshmallows, our parents would tuck those almost molten rocks in our sleeping bags to keep us warm until morning –- when, instead of frostbite, we’d be treated for second degree burns before heading off to a day at the beach without sun block.

Yeah, life was a lot simpler then…

And somehow, we managed to survive –- with stories that kids today will never be able to tell.

Lazy Sunday # 77: Paparazzi

There are generally two kinds of people in this business. Those who are creative and those who feed off them.

Please don't read that assessment as being harsh. Because that which the creatives create is meant to be consumed and exploited and copied and used to provide a livlihood or cultural enrichment for others.

But lately an entire industry has stepped to the fore wherein the creatives themselves are consumed, leaving less worth exploiting and a pervasive feeling of emptiness.

We call this industry Gossip or tabloid journalism or the cult of celebrity, with that last term accurately defining it as a false religion. A false religion whose high priests are called the Paparazzi.

It's gotta be tough making your living capturing, manufacturing and trying to sell celebrity news. One week you have a movie star making a salacious exit via a hotel closet with all the shock value you can dream of, but choosing a closet so far away that some Bangkok weekly scoops you with "the good stuff" and makes you look twice as shameless in the process.

The next you're run off your feet as big names drop like flies without regard to deadlines or previously crafted specials and eulogies.

And not being all that creative, you need to scramble to find something to say, opting for questions like "What's the mood of the family?" revealing either your own lack of intelligence, empathy and life experience or how stupid and out of touch with themselves you believe your audience must be.

And then some little floozie you thought you helped make famous, calling herself Lady Gaga, comes along and simultaneously nails and outdoes what you're all about in seven minutes of inspired creativity with more eye-popping moments than an entire season of pretty much any reined in and micro-managed television series.

This is somebody creative operating at the inspired level.

Drink your fill as she intended.

And enjoy your Sunday.

Lady Gaga - Paparazzi
by UniversalMusicGroup

Life After Farrah

I was living and working in Hollywood in the late 1970’s during the tail end of what was probably the golden age of iconic prime time television. The big hits were M*A*S*H*, Dallas, The Dukes of Hazard, Taxi, Happy Days, The Incredible Hulk, CHiPs and, of course, Charlie’s Angels.

Cotton candy television for the most part. Shows with big budgets and big stars. Every one of them had a familiar theme, great title sequences, popular catch-phrases, cars blowing up and guest stars just as well known as the regular casts.

More people probably tuned in to their lowest rated summer repeat episodes than are currently counted on first run series considered hugely successful. They connected with huge audiences and dictated taste and fashion and fads across North America and around the world.

One of the most important things any successful television series requires is getting its iconography right. The audience has to be able to see one promo or even a single photo in a newspaper or magazine and “get” what you’re selling.

Nobody did that better than “Charlie’s Angels”.

The photo above is from an episode called “Angels in Chains”. Kinda says it all, doesn’t it?

Pretty girls in jeopardy on a chain gang yet without one hair out of place. The prurient thrill of “Women Behind Bars” combined with cheerleader innocence in a way that said nobody was really going to get hurt – or corrupted.

At the center of that photograph stands an actress who also personified what American television was selling back then, the perfect California blonde; the kind of woman who populated discos, roller rinks and the center sections of Playboy.

Farrah Fawcett hit television like a bombshell. Although she’d been around for years, guesting on dozens of series and being a semi-regular on “Harry O” and her husband Lee Majors’ series “The Six Million Dollar Man” nobody really seemed to notice her until she became one of Charlie’s girls.

And then it was like there was nobody else. She not only captured the iconography of the series, but in posing for a poster for a photographer friend, tousling her hair in front of a Mexican blanket, she became an icon for the entire culture of the 1970’s.

That poster was everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Locker rooms. Restaurants. The bedrooms of both sexes. Looking at it now, you can’t figure out why. But looking at it in the late 70’s you just knew she was it. That was beauty. That was perfection. That was what every man wanted and every woman aspired to be.

Farrah Fawcett was one of those moments in time. Mostly forgettable before and after, but absolutely perfect in that one instant.

I didn’t watch “Charlie’s Angels” much. And when a friend who was guesting on an episode asked if I wanted to visit the set, my main reason for going was to meet director Lawrence Dobkin, famous not so much for being a good TV director but as the guy who weekly uttered the immortal line “There are eight million stories in the Naked City. This has been one of them.”

The “Angels” set was on the 20th Century Fox lot and when I arrived, I was almost run over by Harry Morgan, Col. Potter from M*A*S*H*, who careened up in a jeep and in costume. It was one of those moments where you wondered if that had been his quickest way to get to the front gate from the set or he really went home that way.

The “Angels” studio was no different from any other working studio or television set I’ve been on before or since. People professionally going about their business or socializing around the fringes while waiting for their next scene or set up.

Farrah had left the series after one season, encouraged to make the leap to features by her sudden fame and had been replaced by Cheryl Ladd. Her desertion had scandalized the tabloid press who filled the checkout counters with endless headlines about her bad behavior, out of control ego, etc. etc. etc.

But none of the people she’d left behind had a single bad word to say about her. Indeed they were thrilled that she was coming back in a couple of weeks to do a guest shot, something she did annually for the run of the series.

It was my first introduction to the difference between what you read or heard about the entertainment scene and what actually went on. What was written about Farrah was no more true then than what’s written about Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan or anybody else these days. 

In the reality of the real Hollywood, Farrah’s sudden fame had given her opportunities previously unavailable to her and not one person she was working with begrudged her that or hoped she’d fall on her face for moving on.

And while the tabloids debated whether Cheryl could fill Farrah’s shoes or have her impact, the clear mood on the set was, “We got a job to do. The new girl’s part of the team. Let’s make some television.”

These people were proving what one of my theatre teachers had tried to ingrain in all of his students. “This isn’t about fame. It isn’t about Art. It’s a job. Whether what you do is considered a success or determined to be of cultural importance is out of your hands. Other people decide those things. Your job is simply to do the job.”

The movies Farrah left to do weren’t very good or very successful. Later on, she made several “comebacks” that saw her nominated for several Emmys and Golden Globes that she never won. But her icon status also saw her receive People’s Choice Awards and Razzies doubly cursed by her fame to symbolize both success and failure.

She also established herself as a continuing character for the Tabs, fodder for gossip, innuendo and derision simply because she’d once captured lightning in a bottle and in doing so had sparked the synapses of people incapable of firing them themselves.

Farrah Fawcett died today and no doubt will be eulogized as “important” by some and a “train wreck” by others.  Like all of us, she had her successes and failures both in her career and in life. But what no one can deny is that for one brief moment she epitomized all of our dreams and aspirations.

And while others wanted her to be more or less than she was, the truth of her life is this.

She did the job. And she did it well.

THEY SAVED HITLER’S BRAIN

In an example of how much Canadian broadcasting executives just don’t get it, CanWest issued a press release recently to announce changes to its specialty channels.

These included:

1. Turning out the lights at “Fine Living Canada”.

I guess people here aren’t living as fine as the Prime Minister seems to think.

2. Going after a larger male demographic on the, currently heavy with Wedding shows and Makeover shows and shows on Figuring-out-how-to-make-boys-like-us, Slice Channel.

Hint to Slice, most guys are uncomfortable with weddings and change but there are a couple of sure-fire ways to get them to like you -- if you really want to push the envelope.

3. Shifting The History Channel more to entertainment than historical documentaries.

4. TVtropolis won’t change because it can only run shows more than 10 years old and has to wait for whatever changed in the fall of 1999.

“Look, TVTropolis has got “Moesha”! Oooh, I hope it’s in High-Def!”

With regard to The History Channel, Michael Kot, VP of factual content at Canwest, said, "We've stopped being the Hitler channel.”

Actually, Mike – you just became exactly that!


When The History Channel was licensed in 1996, it came on the scene with a mandate to present historical documentaries and films with a special emphasis on documentary and dramatic programs related to Canada’s past. That was reiterated by the CRTC in 2004 when the channel’s license was renewed...

1. (a) The licensee shall provide a national English-language specialty service consisting of historical documentaries, movies, mini-series and history programs which embrace both current events and past history, with a special emphasis on documentary and dramatic programs related to Canada's past.

2. In each broadcast year, the licensee shall devote to the exhibition of Canadian programs not less than 50% of the broadcast day, and not less than 40% of the evening broadcast period.

Now, The History Channel has taken a long and storied end run around those terms of licence right from its beginning with movies that had little if any basis in fact beyond being set during some discernable point of human residence on this planet.

They became "The Hitler Channel" early on because, either unable or unwilling to invest in showcasing any portion of Canadian history which occurred prior to the invention of public domain film clips, they ended up running an endless number of documentaries on WWII.

A couple of years into their existence, any producer pitching a WWII project to History had to list the sources of their archival footage -- mostly because the same free or close to it material was turning up with tiresome regularity.

"Marge, didn't we see that same tank go through that same hedge earlier tonight -- and apparently in a completely different country?"

But rather than look for creative ways to live up to their mandate, the channel simply got creative in their justification of how you defined 'history'.

"CSI:NY" represented New York after the trauma of 9/11 although few episodes even mentioned that event.

"JAG" was a look at the work of the American Judge Advocate General's office, although most of the stories were concocted in LA writers rooms rather than military courts.

Or their current staple "NCIS" wherein the actual series has stopped pretending it has any basis in reality, let alone historical fact.

Despite getting slapped on the wrist for some of this by the CRTC, The History Channel just kept soldiering further from what it was licensed to do, simultaneously spitting in the faces of the CRTC Commissioners they knew were toothless and holding up the genre protection that regulator had granted them to prevent anybody else from delivering actual historical content.

And that's why The History Channel will always be, even without his constant presence, "The Hitler Channel".

You see, Adolf Hitler was an evil, conniving and lying little fuck who rose to and retained power via a propoganda tool he dubbed "The Big Lie".

The concept was to tell a lie so huge people would believe it because they wouldn't be able to comprehend somebody so egregiously misrepresenting the truth.

And then Hitler just kept repeating that lie until those saying something different became the ones who were not believed.

Adolf Hitler blamed Germany's pre-war problems on the Jews. The History Channel insists that running "NCIS" twice nightly during Primetime lives up to its broadcast mandate of educating and informing Canadians about history.

In fact, if you look at The History Channel's overall schedule, you're hard pressed to believe they're anywhere close to exhibiting Canadian programs "not less than 40% of the evening broadcast period".

And when barely any of those "Canadian" non-NCIS offerings deal with actual Canadian history, opting to explore urban legends, the T-Rex and Dracula, you begin to see that The History Channel has less interest in history than becoming yet another re-run platform for its corporate conglomerate's library.

As one of my visitors recently commented:

"Specialty channels are making rates of return of more than 20%.... Not hard to do when you regurgitate every property you've ever owned onto every channel it kinda almost maybe fits. Hey, we own 'Blue Murder'. It has women on it, so its a great fit for Showcase Diva AND it has people moving in it, so its a match for Showcase Action too! And its a cop show, so its PERFECT for Mystery as well."

Arguing that any of our Specialty Channels actually specialize within their genre is the current "Big Lie" in Canadian broadcasting, with The History Channel being perhaps the most hypocritical offender.

They may have gotten rid of Hitler, but they saved his brain.

Don't be surprised if the original "B" movie with that premise turns up on History in the near future -- probably on a double bill with "The Producers".

MAKING LEMONADE

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, pee in it, and serve it to the people that piss you off. (Jack Handy)

LAZY SUNDAY # 76: iPredict

This week I watched three different television news services, CNN, CTV and Newsworld all run segments in which the anchors were awed by the Twitter–ed uprising in Iran. They marvelled at the ability of a repressed population to get around the brutally restrictive practices of their government to share information and get their stories out to the rest of the world, achieving what these organizations could not.

The parallels to Canadian television were boggling.

And while I was struck by the fact that none of these guys were spending their airtime on the real news happening in Iran or even trying to overcome the Twitter advantage in covering it, I also realized that they were missing the next big story.

We don’t need TV news anymore.

And that’s not because most of it has devolved into predictably argumentative talking heads and watching airliners that aren’t really in trouble make uneventful landings at foreign airports.

Whether your “Smartphone” is an iPhone, a Blackberry or Pre, you can now install Apps that let you read newspapers, listen to radio from all over the planet, get video directly from Youtube or Reuters and receive Tweets on where the next rally against oppression is happening.

I’ve got an App called Feeds on my iTouch that allows me to read every blog, news or sports website I follow pretty much wherever I plop my butt of an afternoon to get a cup of coffee.

I don’t need to wait for the top of the hour, the 20-20 updates or try to hang in for any breaking “news at eleven”. I get what I want where and when I want it.

And I get it on the same device that gives me traffic reports for the specific section of road I’m driving, warnings on where the speed traps are and maps that pinpoint the best local pizzeria.

That little device sits unobtrusively on my desk, providing music when I write, tracking for something I’ve shipped, games I can play while I’m on hold or talking to somebody boring and that beeps when I’m supposed to be leaving for an appointment or so I can get out of that boring conversation.

I can’t remember the last time the TV in my office was even on for any other reason except watching dailies.

Over the past month, Canadians have been deluged with pleas to save local television as networks bartered with regulators over how much local news they’re prepared to provide where and when.

But maybe that’s all just so much ancient history. Maybe we’re past needing our television networks to even attempt providing the news. More and more it seems that be the story local or of international importance they can’t do it justice anyway.

Maybe we should just let them concentrate on saving themselves by providing the series, movies and specialty shows that apparently make them all of their money and continue delivering it to those large stationary boxes in the corner of the living room.

But then…

I can already download most of the shows they broadcast and all of the movies they won’t be able to show for up to a couple of years to my mobile devices and zap them to the TV from there.

Major League Baseball even has a new App that will bring me live television broadcasts direct from any of their ballparks.

Gee…

Maybe we don’t need TV networks anymore.

And why should I have to purchase bundles and search around for their channel or even access their online portal for content when I can just Google “Bill Cunningham” press a link and download his latest from iTunes, Netflix, Amazon or maybe directly from him?

And if we don’t need TV networks anymore. Maybe we don’t need cable companies either.

Jim Shaw, maybe you ought to be nicer to those Superchannel guys. They could be right behind you in the line to get into Alberta’s next job fair.

While I know TV isn’t going anywhere for a while, this week’s events have made it clear it’s stale date is being rapidly pushed closer.

And all the rhetoric of needing to “monetize” the internet and mobile services before they become a competitive system that can employ us creative types sounds more hollow each time a new App is created to deliver something else to that smartphone.

I’m predicting that in the future you won’t pay for a specific film or web offering, you’ll simply pay for the dedicated App that allows you to view it.

There.

I just successfully monetized the internet.

Excuse me while I set up a bank account in the Caymans to handle the royalties you all owe me.

But seriously. Can you make a profit at 99 cents a movie purchase? Why not? If your potential audience is everybody in the world with a smartphone and there are no distributors and exhibitors taking 60% off the top, trust me, that system’s making money for us creatives.

Think about it.

Because the guys below are going to become very wealthy doing just that.

And pray for those people Twittering from Iran.

And enjoy your Sunday. 

MR. RAMENDEZ

We just had one of those violent High School incidents in my part of the world. There was a big fight at a local high school. Knives were drawn and several kids and a teacher who tried to intervene ended up in hospital.

So now there's a big debate here about metal detectors, cops in schools, what teachers should do in such situations -- and probably whether Fencing and Kendo should be on the ciriculum.

It's been 40 years since I was in high school, so I won't offer an opinion on all that. But it reminded me of a teacher I had who faced a similar predicament and what I learned from him.

I had a lot of great teachers (And if any of them are reading this, my apologies if I'm mispelling names. It's been a while and who knows what happened to that yearbook).

There was Mr. Gowdie, a rugby built hydrant of a Scotsman, who taught Latin and so loved ancient History he could easily be distracted from declensions to spending a whole class discussing battle tactics of the Roman army.

There was Mr. McKague, a lapsed Jesuit with a love of life that made you want to learn everything there was about anything he taught.

There was elderly and cranky Mr. Muir, who snagged me by the collar one day, pulling me back into his classroom and said, "Why are you wasting your time with Science? You're a story teller. Let somebody else find a cure for Cancer. There are more important things to be accomplished."

And there was Mr. Ramendez.

Mr. Ramendez taught Math and Geometry. He was Venezulan or Columbian, maybe 5' 6" and slight, looking and sounding exactly like Edward James Olmos in "Stand and Deliver", the brilliant film biography of another Hispanic Math teacher.

He was easy going with a dry sense of humor, quiet and reserved. But distant and detached. I had him all four years of High School and I don't think I ever once heard him raise his voice or say a single word in anger or disgust.

He was one of those people you barely noticed and never gave a second thought about. He wasn't in our lives and we weren't in his.

Until trouble came to our school.

Gangs weren't an issue in Regina in 1967. I'd seen "Blackboard Jungle". I'd hummed along with the Sharks and the Jets. I'd smirked when Brando looked up from that diner Jukebox and said "Whaddaya got?". But that was stuff in faraway places and movies.

And then we got a gang.

They called themselves "The Apollos" and patterned themselves after the Hell's Angels, with motorcycles, sleeveless demin jackets emblazoned with their colors and the first tattoos I'd seen on somebody who hadn't been in the navy.

There were four members at my school. Big, tough, no nonsense guys who made it clear they'd as soon kick your ass as look at you and constantly looked for trouble.

We were all afraid of them, careful what we said in their presence, avoiding eye contact, doing all those things kids do to not attract attention.

Two of them were in my senior algebra class and I'll never forget the first day they walked in wearing their colors, daring anyone to confront them.

Mr. Ramendez sat on his desk, playing catch with a piece of chalk. They riveted their attention on him, almost begging him to say something.

So he did.

He walked to the back of the room, made a show of noticing the vests and stood between the two thugs, speaking very calmly.

"Apollos. Do you know what a-pollo is in Spanish?"

One of them eyed him.

"A chicken."

The kid glared. Mr. Ramendez smiled and nodded.

"It's true. So you're a bunch of Chickens?"

He went on like that for a good five minutes. Not backing down. Never showing one glimpse of fear. Just doing Chicken jokes as the two muscled goofs steamed.

And from then on, he found an excuse in every class to push their buttons. He'd ask an impossible math question, pointing to one of the gang members for an answer, greeting the puzzled look or silence with a soft (Puk-puk-puk)-- nobody here but us chickens.

Within a short time, the two came to class less frequently. Then they stopped coming all together. Mr. Ramendez never seemed to notice or even commented on their absence. If they were there he baited them. But out of sight out of mind.

On the last day of class, those of us who bothered to show were mostly hoping for a hint at what might be on the final exam.

But for the first time, a man, who had seemed little interested in us beyond our being an excuse for a paycheck, seemed to be looking right at us.

"I hope you learned more than Math this semester," he said as the class came to an end. "I hope you learned not to be afraid of people who want you to fear them. There are many things to be cautious of in life. But people who demand fear don't fall into that category."

"When you refuse to be afraid, to be silent, to be intimidated, you take away the only real power they have over you."

"Save your fears for more important things. Tomorrow's test for example..."

We all laughed. But the lesson stuck.

Every time I come up against someone demanding my unthinking obedience, my silence or respect for their skill at intimidation, I remember that small teacher facing an evil he wanted out of his classroom and away from his students and refusing to play its game.

You never know how strong you are until you simply refuse to be afraid any longer.